


In Which Clint Owns a Flower* Shop

by DoctorTrekLock



Series: AU-gust 2020 [27]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Flour Shop AU, It's a flower shop...but a flour shop AU, M/M, meet cute, shop au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:34:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26154268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorTrekLock/pseuds/DoctorTrekLock
Summary: “Your dreamboat’s here,” Natasha told Clint with amusement as she walked past him on her way to the storeroom.“Who?” Clint asked reflexively. Then his eyes widened in realization. “Oh shit, really?” He started brushing off his apron, hoping he looked passable. “You’re sure it’s him?”Natasha was standing by the entrance to the storeroom, shoulder braced against the wall. She was laughing at him, he could tell, but in her Russian sort of way which meant the whole thing was conveyed in microexpressions.“You waxed poetic about his eyes for quite some time,yastrebka.” Her smile was indulgent. “Also, he asked for you.”
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Series: AU-gust 2020 [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1870924
Comments: 8
Kudos: 85





	In Which Clint Owns a Flower* Shop

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted August 27, 2020 on [Tumblr](https://doctortreklock.tumblr.com/post/627674501338087424/au-gust-27-flower-shop-au)

“Your dreamboat’s here,” Natasha told Clint with amusement as she walked past him on her way to the storeroom.

“Who?” Clint asked reflexively. Then his eyes widened in realization. “Oh shit, really?” He started brushing off his apron, hoping he looked passable. “You’re sure it’s him?”

Natasha was standing by the entrance to the storeroom, shoulder braced against the wall. She was laughing at him, he could tell, but in her Russian sort of way which meant the whole thing was conveyed in microexpressions.

“You waxed poetic about his eyes for quite some time, _yastrebka_.” Her smile was indulgent. “Also, he asked for you.”

“He did?” Clint couldn’t help the hopeful note in his voice. Or, he was sure, the painfully tentative look on his face.

Natasha softened and stepped forward to ruffle his hair, leaving a fine powder in the air around them. “Go,” she told him. “Before he realizes that he has been led astray and vanishes.”

Clint felt his eyes widen. “Oh no.” Then he turned and hurried into the store proper.

He was there. Phil, the guy Clint had run into in the park last weekend.

Like, literally run into.

Clint had been skimming the news on his phone; Phil had been trying to juggle his briefcase, his coffee, and his ringing cell. There had been a collision, complete with spilled coffee, dropped phones, and love at first sight. On Clint’s part at least, though from the looks he’d been getting, he wouldn’t rule it out on Phil’s side.

Afterwards, Phil was left sitting on a bench, ruefully dabbing at the coffee stain with a handful of napkins Clint had begged from a bemused mother of three while Clint hovered.

“Sit down,” Phil had said, amusement coloring the command.

“Sorry again,” Clint had told him. “About, you know, your tie and everything.”

Phil had waved him off. “I wasn’t watching either. It was actually quite convenient - ruined suit excepted, of course.”

Then Phil had explained the phone call he’d missed, courtesy of Clint’s obliviousness. Apparently Phil had missed his mother’s birthday for the last three years running and his sister wasn’t going to let him forget it this time around.

“And now I need to come up with, I don’t know, cake or flowers or something before next weekend.”

And that was when Clint had decided that it was Fate herself that had put him in Phil’s path.

“I’ve got you covered,” Clint had promised, pulling out one of the business cards Natasha had insisted on him carrying. “Come by later this week. I’ll hook you up on the house.”

Phil had taken it and smiled - either at Clint or at the little cartoon vine doodled along the edge of the card, Clint wasn’t sure which. “Hawkeye’s Flowers,” he’d read aloud.

“Hawkeye’s Flowers - star,” Clint corrected him. Because the asterisk on _Hawkeye’s Flowers*_ was very important.

“Hawkeye’s Flowers, star,” Phil had agreed. And that smile had definitely been aimed at Clint and had made him feel warm and bubbly inside all day.

Now, though, it was Friday and Clint had pretty much given up on seeing Phil again, which was of course when he’d waltzed back into Clint’s life.

He was wearing a suit again, with a deep purple tie that Clint immediately wanted to touch. He didn’t look uncomfortable, but he did look as perplexed as their usual first-time customers.

When Phil caught sight of Clint, he smiled. It reached his eyes and was just for Clint, and it felt like a punch in the gut.

“Hey, Phil,” he said breathlessly.

“Hello, Clint,” Phil told him. “I can see why the asterisk is so important in Hawkeye’s Flowers*.” He said it so matter-of-factly, like of course the oddities of the shop could be explained away with a piece of punctuation. Of course it all made sense. Not like Natasha, who had cursed him up and down in her mother tongue when she found out the name he’d incorporated the shop under.

Clint had to reach for the counter next to him before he did something stupid like grab Phil and kiss him without asking.

“So, um, where do you want to start?” Clint asked, rubbing the back of his neck and trying to hide his flush. “The all-purpose is along this wall, otherwise the cake flour is in that case over there.”

Because, of course, _Hawkeye’s Flowers*_ was a flour shop.

It had been a florists when Clint had bought it, and he hadn’t taken the coolers and tiered displays out. They worked well as shelves and racks to hold everything from the smallest 2 pound bag of almond flour perched on the highest tier in the center of the room to the 50 pound sacks of pastry flour sitting on the floor against the wall.

Phil looked at the selection surrounding him in bemusement. “I can’t even begin to tell you,” he said wryly. “I must admit that while I’m mostly lost with petal flowers, I am completely lost with baking flours.”

Clint’s eyes widened in dismay. He hadn’t thought of that when he’d offered to help Phil out with his mother’s birthday. Instead of being able to pick up a bouquet like he’d probably expected, Phil was going to be the proud owner of 5 pounds of cake flour and a dream.

“I can help!” he blurted. He closed his eyes to hide his mortification, but then opened them again so he could see Phil’s expression.

It was soft and fond. Clint’s breath caught in his chest.

“I can help,” he repeated, trying to keep that look on Phil’s face for as long as possible. “If you’d like, I mean. With the cake. If you wanted help with the cake. I can bake. Which you might have guessed. Because I sell flours.”

He winced. Phil was sure to find rambling endearing, right? He peeked at the other man. From the way he was biting his lip to keep a huge grin at bay, he probably did. Which made Clint feel warm in all sorts of ways, only most of them PG.

“If you’re not busy,” Phil agreed, and it looked like he was fighting his smile in an attempt to look smooth, which Clint appreciated - because it was a hell of a good look on Phil - but he also liked flustered Phil who forgot his mom’s birthday and smiled at Clint like he was beautiful.

“He’s not,” Natasha cut in from the doorway. “In fact, he’s so not busy, he can take off now.”

Clint shot her a look of surprise, but she just raised an eyebrow in his direction. Tasha was the sister he’d never had, but most of the time she was one of those annoying sisters who’d insult him in public and eat all the leftovers in his fridge. She must really like Phil, to be willing to be nice to Clint with an audience.

Clint looked back at Phil, who was giving him a sort of quietly hopeful look. Clint grinned. “I guess I’m taking off now.” He pulled his apron over his head and tossed it over the counter so it could catch on one of the hooks on the back wall. “Thanks, Natasha!”

She muttered something that might have been “idiot” in Russian, but Clint knew it came from a place of love.

He grabbed one of the bags of cake flour - making a careful mental note so he could reconcile inventory like a responsible small business owner - and reached his free hand out toward Phil.

Phil took it, meeting Clint’s grin with one of his own. “I’ll warn you, I don’t have much in the way of ingredients in my kitchen,” Phil told him cautiously.

“To the store then,” Clint decided. “And then your kitchen.”

Phil didn’t protest.

Clint shouldered the door open so he didn’t have to let go of the flour or Phil’s hand. He stepped into the August sunshine with a smile on his face.


End file.
